


Beneath a Moonless Sky (The Masked Beauty)

by Daerwyn



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Abuse, Angst, F/M, Fake Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of miscarriage, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rescue, Sexual Abuse, Verbal Abuse, held captive, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 10:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daerwyn/pseuds/Daerwyn
Summary: Christine is abandoned by Raoul in a band of vagabonds, who take advantage of her beauty. Can Erik save his Angel before her song completely leaves her?





	

" _Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,_  
_Purge all thoughts of the life you knew before._  
_Close your eyes, let your spirits start to soar-_ " Christine sang the song in a mere whisper, to be sure that she was not heard outside of the thin walls of the carriage. She did not wish to make Raoul angry. He forbid her from singing such songs anymore. Nothing to remind him of _him_.

"We haven't all day, monsieur," Christine could hear Raoul just outside the carriage. Her fingers itched for the curtain to see what the fuss was about, but she pulled them back just in time. The door had opened sharply, and Raoul appeared, stepping into the carriage without so much of a glance to his wife.

They had married mere months ago, while the embers of the _Opera Populaire_ still smoldered in the busy streets of Paris. But they had changed. Gone were the fond memories of their childhood together, instead replaced with the haunting songs of the shadows, and the dream she had been able to live for only a short while. Raoul had changed perhaps the most. While she had always been quiet, obeying and doing whatever Madame Giry had told her to do, Raoul had always been an outspoken, brave man that never took no for an answer.

The anger was understandable, she could suppose. As the carriage gave a rough jerk, she noticed the hard lines beginning to form around his mouth - a telltale sign that his patience was wearing thin. Their trip had been a spur of the moment, a last-ditch effort to get her from the stuffy house and out into the open once more. She had not left the manor since they were married. She had not wanted to be seen by the public. She did not want them to see the fear that hid in her eyes as her husband would take her arm, nor the tremble of her lip when he would make mention of the beast that resided in the sewers of the _Opera_.

She dared not defend her Angel. She dared not mention that speaking ill of the dead was a dark omen.

Christine glanced from Raoul sharply, so that she would not be caught staring, and glanced to the dark lacy curtains of the carriage, trying to make some sense of the shapes she could just barely see from behind it. Trees.

"It is poor weather that has greeted us on this trip," Christine said quietly, in an attempt at being cordial. But her gloved hand tightened in her skirts, a nervous habit that she had just recently begun to develop. She took a deep breath and glanced towards him.

"Yes, quite," Raoul spoke with a calm that was too unsettling for her to believe it to be genuine. "It is a shame that it is just the two of us. Mother would have very much liked to have met her grandchild."

Christine glanced away with the unexpected blossom of tears that flooded her eyes. The announcement of her pregnancy mere months ago had been an excited one, just weeks after the wedding, with the company of his visiting mother and Raoul himself. But then things had gone sour with the change of the wind, and the grandchild his mother had cooed over one day having to dote upon had been disowned by Raoul. Privately, though his mother did not know that. The miscarriage had nearly killed her. And Raoul had barely glanced at the maid with the news. He had simply nodded as if a duty had been done.

"You claimed it was not her grandchild." Christine swallowed back the rest of the words before Raoul could rise to them. She said the only words that could seem to appease him. "I'm sorry. I will work better, harder."

He did not even so much as glance to her.

The carriage fell into silence, save for the few creaks every few steps of the horses, and the path being a tad bumpier than she could ever remember it being. But the harsh rains of the autumn had probably changed the forest paths. The limbs had likely fallen or branches that had been in disrepair had been stomped into the mud, leaving it uneven and dangerous.

But she did not question it. Christine did not think it would go very well.

When the carriage came to a sudden halt, a faint music reached her ears. She sat up slightly, feeling a sense of alarm. Was there a traveling show approaching? They were hardly people to trust, especially with their wealth being prominently displayed by the state of their carriage.

"Raoul, why are we stopping?"

He had sat up straight as well, peering out of the curtains. And when he glanced to Christine, there was a smile on his face. A smile that she had not seen for the near seven months of their marriage. Genuine happiness. "A surprise, Lottie." A surprise? And to use Lottie...

Perhaps he was feeling better. Able to put their past behind them and focus on the future they had together.

Raoul opened the carriage door swiftly and stepped out, turning to offer Christine his hand. Rain greeted her as she stretched her legs for the first time in what felt like days, though it was only within the last day.

"Is it raining over all of Europe?" she asked curiously. The rain had not ceased since they left the manor near Paris, and even then it had rained for days beforehand. It was as if the skies were lamenting her loss to her. As if they were offering nothing more than a comforting embrace that seemed to seep into her bones.

"I suppose, Lottie," Raoul said with only a brief glance at her. He tucked her arm under his and her breath left her in a shudder, but she did not say anything else. She did not glance to him. The less she thought of the man on her arm, the less frozen with fear she felt in her soul.

The caravans were camped just a few yards into the woods, on a path that diverged from the main, with gas lanterns hanging from the fronts of each, to allow for light in the dreary day. The closer they became to the rusty and mud covered caravans the more the clothing and music became recognizable.

"Raoul, what are we doing here?" she whispered quietly. And as she glanced back to the carriage, she caught sight of the flag that was waving just off of one of the caravans. "What are we doing so far south? I thought we were heading west to your mothers-" Spain. Were they in Spain? There was no way they could have traveled so far without her notice. Surely it wasn't a trick, though. A Spanish flag in France in these times... it was foolish.

"We've made a small detour, Lottie," Raoul said with a placating calm that once more chilled her. What was going on? "Come, Christine, there is someone I want you to meet."

As they walked, Christine felt the rain begin to drench into her cloak and down her curls so that they were slick against her face and neck. Raoul appeared unaffected by the weather and did not hurry his steps to whoever they were meeting. He did not seem to care when the vagabonds in the caravans that were slowly surrounding their every possible exit emerged to stare at the two of them.

"Raoul, I'm frightened. I wish to go back to the carriage."

"We have traveled far to meet him, Christine. We must not keep him waiting any longer."

A few tents seemed to be attempting to dry over a wire that stretched between two caravans, folded with tears and tatters hinting at just how old and long ago used they were. The words were faded, and difficult to make out, but "Devil's Child" stood out to her. She was not sure what made her think of him, but the words reminded her of her dear Angel, consumed by the fire. Much like the Devil was consumed by the fires of hell. Her Phantom. Oh, how she missed him dearly. Oh, how she wished that he had not left her and that she had chosen him to run and spend the rest of her days with. Perhaps life would have been simpler and easier.

But there was no evidence that he had survived the smolders of the brick and mortar.

"Raoul-"

"I will not hear more complains." He shoved the "Devil's Child" tent away, the wire swinging dangerously, as though it would snap under the sagging weight of the watered down fabric, but he tugged Christine through the portal into the section between the caravans. It was a make-shift lean-to, with rusted metal resting atop their heads to block the rain. A candle rested on a stool just beside a man dressed in a shabby suit, sitting with an air to him that made her wonder if he was in charge.

"Señor," Raoul greeted, dipping his head to the man and tugging Christine forward another step, into the light. "This is Christine, the one that I wrote to you about."

A form shifted behind the man with the scraggly beard, who offered no name in return. Not even when Christine offered her own "Bonjour, _señor_."

The man looked her over in an unpleasant manner and pursed his lips. But it was Raoul that spoke. "Christine, this is Mademoiselle Caroline Roux." The form moved again, into the light, and Christine could see a pretty, young woman that looked much out of place. She was polished, with her curls perfectly formed and pinned around her head, and her pale blue dress unblemished by the weather and mud. She did not look like a vagabond in the slightest, but instead a French woman of a high upbringing.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," Christine gave her in a pleasant greeting. "You'll have to forgive our appearance. It's wet out there, and my parasol was tucked away. We stopped so suddenly, you see-"

"Do you have the mask?" the Spanish vagabond interrupted. Christine ceased speaking immediately, glancing away from the pretty woman towards him. Mask? What mask? Still, he leered at Christine, unfavorably interested in what she looked like underneath. But to Christine's surprise, Raoul reached into his suit jacket and produced a silk wrapped object, passing it to the vagabond. The vagabond tugged at the ribbon holding the fabric together, and Christine stifled a gasp at what she saw.

The mask. Her Angel's beautiful mask, in the same condition it had been when she had last seen it, on that brief night long ago. Even the black ribbon that tied around his head was still knotted in the perfect loops. Caroline Roux stepped closer to the vagabond, to get a good look at the mask, and then glanced up to meet Christine's eyes. There was something in them that made Christine feel as though something very and truly wrong was about to occur. Fear.

Raoul let go of Christine's arm and stepped forward.

"Everything is in order?" Raoul spoke firmly.

The vagabond let the mask drop, with little care, onto the candle-lit stool and flickered his eyes over to Christine. "Yes, I believe it is. The trunk you have promised?"

"Unloaded."

The vagabond gave a nod and rose. "I have the mask, the girl, a new exhibit..." He smirked, and his eyes darted to Christine. "I am very happy. Or rather, I will be. _Gracias, señor._ " Raoul offered a hand to shake, and the vagabond took it. And then his arm was offered to Caroline.

"I'm afraid I'm rather confused with what's going on," Christine admitted, as Caroline glanced down to the arm with a tender expression on her face. "Raoul?"

But he did not answer, turning to leave. Christine grabbed her skirt, taking a step after him, but as he ducked behind the damp, hanging tents, she was grabbed by the vagabond, propelled a few steps backward. "Ah, ah, not so fast, _señorita_. There is much we need to do. But first... let's see how well this exhibit will perform."

Christine had a feeling that the exhibit was not just the mask. It was _her_. "Unhand me!" she said firmly, but the vagabond just laughed, and when he reached for the mask, his other hand tightened on her arm, tugging her so tightly that she cried out as she crashed into his front. "Let go of me! Raoul! RAOUL!" The mask slid onto her face, the ribbons tied for a head much larger than her own, so it did not stay on well, falling down her face and looking more like a loose necklace than anything. It smelled of her phantom, of the _Opera Populaire_. Of that night. Of their night.

Oh, how she wished she had chosen him all those nights ago. How she wished that he had-

"He will not save you," the vagabond spoke with a growl. "Not anymore. Never again. So be a good girl and hold the mask in place..." He used the hand not gripping her arm to tug at the bodice of the expensive traveling gown that Raoul had custom made for her months ago. It tore at the seams and she tried to shove against him. "And if you don't, you won't like what will happen. That is your job here. Keep the mask on, or face the consequences."

" _RAOUL_!" she screamed, but no one was listening. And with the rain pounding against the metal roof, she wondered if he could even hear her. If he even cared.


End file.
